


Quicksand

by The_Birds_And_Bees



Category: Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: Body Possession, Chara Is Their Own Warning, Gen, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Major character death - Freeform, Post-Pacifist Route, SAVING and Resetting, co-dependancy, experimentation gone wrong, suicidal ideations
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-01-01
Updated: 2016-01-02
Packaged: 2018-05-10 20:31:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,712
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5599837
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Birds_And_Bees/pseuds/The_Birds_And_Bees
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Frisk is there too, but that's not surprising. </p>
<p>Of course Frisk is there. </p>
<p>Because Frisk is Theirs, so why would they ever let go?</p>
<p> </p>
<p>  <em>Let me ask you a question.</em></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Let Me Tell You A Story [Prologue]

* * *

 

 

_Everyone knows the legend, right? “Travellers who climb Mount Ebott are said to disappear.”_

 

* * *

 

It’s getting dark; so dark that they can hardly see the path in front of them, or the silhouettes of trees against the purple-black sky.

They used to be afraid of the dark. Used to be, are. Regardless, they have two options, in a situation like this. To stop or keep going. And they keep going. Keep tripping on rocks and scuffing up their hands until they’re out of bandages with smiley faces on them to place over the new cuts, but it’s still better than stopping. Still better than where they started.

Because if you stop, you cry.

Nobody likes a cry baby.

There’s a stitch in their side, but they can’t really do anything about that. They huff out their breaths and it hurts; and when the shadows seem to hide stuff that moves and doesn’t and does, they huff harder. Scared? No.

They used to be afraid of the dark. Eventually, it just becomes familiar company.

Familiar company likes playing tricks, and they wind up sprawling when the path ahead of them abruptly levels out. More scratches and no band-aids... that’s okay. They lay their with their arms flat against the ground, and stare straight ahead, because the dark is never really as dark as it likes to think it is. Eventually, they’ll see something.

A mouth looms over them. It’s so high, so wide. Set into the ground in such a way that it looks like the mountain is trying to bite down, eat it’s way to the ground far below. To the little lights of a little town, twinkling in the distance. A cave. It’s a cave, way up here. All alone.

They’re alone too. Slowly getting to their feet, they dust themselves off, gently petting one corner of the mouth as they approach. It must be really hungry. They’re hardly big enough to satisfy such a mouth, but they enter the cave anyway. One step at a time, waiting for the dark to stop pretending it’s darker than it actually is.

What little light that sense of nonsensical belief brings isn’t much. There’s nothing but shapes and walls and more shapes; a floor that sink in and leaps in oddly frantic motions. They crouch down to feel them. Vines. Curious, they lean forward, feel a little more. Vines.

And a patch of darkness. Darker and darker still. If they squint, they can see the way it curves around in front of them, another gaping maw that disappears out of their poorly imagined field of vision.

Maybe the mouth already bit the ground. Over and over again, until it bit so far there wasn’t an end. It’s a silly thought to have, a blend of childish fascination and an imagination that could only dream of continuing into the vast forever- as rational and believable a thought as any other. A mountain with a mouth with a hole that went on forever.

Perhaps so much so, that anything falling into it would just fall forever too. It’s a thought that gives way to a moment of pause, an idea that sticks and stays when dusty fingers curl around a tiny stone, gently pitching it over the side.

 

It falls.

 

It falls and falls and falls, with no sound to make. No answer. Would it keep falling, forever? Would anybody know? Would anybody care?

They knew. They know, and it’s a flight of fancy that sets off a tiny little burning sensation in their chest. They stand, and the weight on their shoulders stays on the ground. They could fly, perhaps. They could fly forever.

Mount Ebott. The mountain where everything disappeared.

A tremulous breath escapes them. A sigh, perhaps; of pain, or regret, of relief. A mingling mixture of words and emotions that had escaped their capability to perceive so far, though they feel them anyway. They all fall away. The world falls away. It all falls away, disappearing, quiet.

They wipe clammy palms on their pants, thumbs idly tugging on the inside of their sleeves. In an almost idle fashion, they spread their arms.

They tilt. Ever so slowly, hair pitching forwards then back across their cheeks, the gentle build turning into a gusting rush as they let the mountain swallow them whole. Falling forever? It doesn’t sound so bad.

Mount Ebott. The mountain where everything disappeared.

 

The mountain people took things they didn’t want anymore.

 

* * *

 

_Frisk, why would you ever climb a mountain like that?_

 

* * *

 


	2. And Marigolds All In A Row

* * *

 

 

**One of the strange things about living in the world is that it is only now and then one is quite sure one is going to live forever and ever and ever.**

* * *

The bell rings, and in a show of almost impeccable unison multiple chairs scrape across the ground, allowing their occupants to join the mad rush out of the classroom door. Their teacher is resigned to this behavior, by this point; simply going back to shuffling the worksheets on her desk into some semblance of order. She calls out to her students’ retreating backs, belatedly reminding them of homework that more than half won’t get done.

Frisk is slower to rise than most. They take their time as they always do, packing their pencil case into their bag with a sense of focus that’s...unsettling. Humans find it unsettling, which of course means that their human teacher also finds it so.They look at her as they leave, and Miss Robinson smiles awkwardly back, not saying a word.

Out the door, down the polished linoleum hallway. To the front door, to the front grounds. Buses wait in single file all the way down the street, and cars park haphazardly across driveways in their driver’s sloppy attempts to pick up their child the fastest; make a quick getaway, before the roads are blocked. Frisk never has to take the bus, but a few times, they’ve had to take a limo.

It wasn’t as fun as it sounded.

Sans is picking them up today. He’s waiting by the gate, all smiles as usual. Frisk isn’t even sure that he can’t smile; if so, they’ve never seen it. There’s wrinkle lines in his bones, just beneath his eyes, and his hand is warmer than anyone else would give it credence to be, magic filling all the important spaces where tiny fingers wish to rest. He gives their hand a squeeze, and they give him one back.

After all this time, some of the kids still stop and stare. Frisk doesn’t comment, and Sans doesn’t either. They think he doesn’t mind so much, which makes it a little better...but they still wish they could’ve just gone to monster school, instead. Monsters don’t stare as much.

“Hey, kiddo. Learn anything new, today?”

“Um…” Their noses scrunches up, shrugging offhandedly as they wander out of the school grounds, and down the street. It’s not hard to keep up with him- he dawdles. A lot. “Precipitation is a really silly word for rain?”

“Heh. It’s science-y. People like that sort of thing; _snow_ skin off my back.” They giggle up at him, and Sans grins back, as he always does. They like to think the way those crinkles on his cheeks and the lines under his eyes deepen is proof that he really is smiling, this time. It’s becoming a noticeably more frequent habit.

He doesn’t ask if they’ve made any friends, today. To be fair, he stopped asking that question within the first week. They’d like to say that it’s just because he’s an adult, and adults are usually pretty perceptive...but he’s the only one who’s stopped asking. So maybe Sans is just a little smarter than everyone else.

“P.E today too, huh? Sounds like fun.”

“No it doesn’t…”

“Well, no, it doesn’t. But it’s only once a week, right? Here we go-” He steers them off the path and towards a tree, indulging them a little as they make to swing around the trunk. It doesn’t seem to make it any harder for him to open the front door, so there’s that. They both kick off their shoes at the landing, and Frisk takes out their homework before hanging their bag on a hook very intentionally left at their height.

“What time is mom getting home?”

“Later.” Meaning pretty late, because she still had plenty of monster school related things to do. Frisk deflates as they follow Sans into the kitchen, and the slice of pie that slides across the table to their designated seat is cold, refrigerated.

It’s not as nice cold.

He takes the seat across from them with a bottle of ketchup in hand. Watching but not watching. They don’t quite get how he does that yet, but they think of glimmering little twinkles on the ground, and their head hurts.

They think about shortcuts and their head hurts even more. Both of these things are not like each other, but both of these things are best left ignored.

“...Miss Robinson said I can’t have anymore time off school.” They slide that into the silence before taking another spoonful of pie, watching as Sans stops not watching and just watches. Better.

“That so? Well, Miss Robinson’s in for a shock, isn’t she?” There’s two plane tickets stuck under a magnet on the fridge, so Frisk supposes that she is. It’s pretty hard to get to class when they’re in France.

But they can’t not go to France, because the Minister is still claiming that Onionsan swimming within French waters was a declaration of war. Frisk knew what a declaration of war was, now. They’d studied it.

And Onionsan was about un-declaration of war as they came.

“She said I’d have to repeat if I did.” They’re already so behind everyone else in the class. Mom had made a point of addressing the Cs and Ds on Frisk’s report card for the first semester directly, but there was only so much she could do. Both of them already had school. School had to stop eventually.

“Pretty crummy of her.” He makes a show of wiping the corner of his mouth, and Frisk replicates the motion. Crummy. “Don’t let it get to you, kid. I’ll chat with her.”

“Okay.” Frisk’s spoon scrapes across the almost empty plate, but it’s still not as loud as the banging from the front door. Headbanging.

Kid.

There’s a click and shift in their disposition as they look up, expression entirely too hopeful for what is, in essence, an afternoon routine. Sans doesn’t even finish his shrug before they’re out of their chair and at the door, beaming almost as widely as the monster child beams back.

“Yo! Undyne’s totally making her girlfriend run laps again; _in a trashcan!_ You gotta come run with us too!”

“Okay!” They slam the door on their way out- then politely open and close it to collect their shoes, as well.Two children skitter down the path to the oval, and two children wind up being additional weights for an already challenging sprint taken by one fish lady and a dinosaur.

They stay out until it gets dark- and then a little longer, because Undyne gives both their folks the heads up on where they are, and who they’re with. They’re all done with running by this point...but no one’s done with the stars.

Monsters could sit and stare at them all night, if Frisk let them.

If they’re really honest with themselves, though? They hardly ever notice that kind of thing. Pretty stuff belongs on the ground, not in the sky. Even at night, the stars are more of a twinkling fascination, something to help their gaze draw upwards past the many echoes of timelines long since Reset. They remember reading about stars, once.

The book said that if you can see them shining, it means they're already dead. That's how long it takes for the light to pass through all that black space, and touch someone’s eyes. It’s just...dead stuff. Not even real anymore.

 

**so really, it's not that different from the ground at all.**

 

...It’s time to go home. Frisk stands, not getting so much as a twitch out of the others, and walks away. They cross the road by themselves, head down the empty streets. It’s a process they’ve repeated plenty of times, and not much about this part has changed. They’re pretty sure a good half of their life is just supposed to be walking. Maybe even more.

“I’m home.” Letting themselves in, they take off their shoes, carefully nudging them against the wall. It’s warmer inside; smells wafting through the air.

Mom’s home. They know even before they’re swept into a hug, smiling from ear to ear when they bury their face into her fur. Toriel’s hand runs over their head, a gentle caress, and Frisk sighs, utterly limp.

“You walked home by yourself again, my child.” It’s a gentle reproof as they’re picked up, snug against the crook of her hip as she navigates back to the kitchen. “Undyne will be worried about you.”

“They were looking at the stars again.” A mumbled protest into her shirt, and she chuckles, jostling them about as she continues preparing dinner. The first few weeks, she’d tried to make things with Human food. Nobody was happy about it, in the end. Especially the toilet.

“Would it not have been simple to tell them you would like to go, little love? Your friends would not have minded.” They wouldn’t have, no. Frisk shakes their head slowly in answer, assuringly assured that mom doesn’t mind at all. The important thing, in her mind, is that they’re safe. After six months, she’s become a little more confident in that.

They have a nice life together, even if it is a little busy. Toriel runs her school, and Frisk goes to school- and somewhere between those two things, they still manage to put other stuff first. Like friends. Like family. Like Frisk’s duties as an ambassador who had very quickly gone from a laughing stock to someone to be watched, formidable enough in their own right.

Frisk didn’t have to speak much, in most circumstances. They just had to listen, and eventually, the solution would crop up. Be it a word, or a sentence. An action. They stayed in their little monster community, one far away from most human residences, and Sans took them to and from school most days, skipping out the hour long travel that it took to get there otherwise. He hangs around until Frisk goes out with someone else, or Toriel gets home. They got to see the sun, the monsters got to see the stars.

They got to eat dinner with their mom before they sat together on the lounge and did their homework together, even though Frisk always finished their few pages well before their mother finished her exceptional pile. The news stayed low in the background, and Frisk saw reports that made some sense, like Mettaton’s growing popularity and astounding debut record in the human box office, and ones that made less so, like the ones about the slowly building economy based on resources coming out of the mountain.

People were happy. They had their happy ending, finally. And Frisk was getting there. Slowly but surely, it became less and less startling to find attention on them every single day, to find there were people there who wanted to hear them speak, wanted to know their thoughts.

**one big happily ever after.**

**you know what comes next, right? why do you keep putting it off?**

Bath time is still a bit weird. They can’t count all their ribs anymore, and if the look on mom’s face when Frisk told her that is any real indication, that’s a good thing. Their hair is soft and fluffy by the time mom towels it dry, and a gentle brush has it curling about their cheeks, behaving. For the moment.

A little more television, before bed.  They stay curled up at Toriel’s feet in front of the coffee table, and don’t complain when her arms block out most of the screen while she works. The important thing is the closeness, the familiarity of it all.

“...Is it not eight o’clock, my child? I believe bedtime may be in order.” The TV clicks off, and Frisk blinks, reaction delayed for a moment before they tilt their head back to look at her.

And she looks back. She looks back, and that’s-

Important.

“You can keep working, mom. I can tuck myself in.”

“I know you can, dear heart. Still," She pushes her glasses up the wide bridge of her nose, frowning down at the work laid out before her. She's not even close to finishing it, Frisk thinks. So the less time she spends upstairs, the better. "A good night kiss is a very important thing."

"I'll start, then."

"And I will follow."

Mom kisses their forehead, and Frisk heads upstairs, dutifully ensuring that they brush their teeth first before even looking at their bedroom door.

The hallway of their new house isn’t as big as the first one, but at night, Frisk likes to imagine that it’s long. Longer than anything, taking hours and hours to walk through until they reach the little table in the middle of the landing, the one directly opposite the stairs. The large vase that proudly makes up most of the display is stuffed full of flowers- white and yellow lilies, this week. They’ve been changing them up, now. More colors. Less yellow.

A little yellow.

The only other piece that makes it’s home on the small surface is a photo frame, and it’s one of their favorite things. Everyone inside it is smiling, everyone’s happy. Everyone has the sun shining down on their heads. Everyone’s free.

**and isn’t that cute?**

Frisk exhales, an almost petulant sound as their hands clench into fists, almost deliberately taking more time then they need to. Just a precaution, just in case, but- it wouldn’t really help. It never does.

They know better than to try to reach for a Save at a night.

**frisk...stop dawdling. you open the bedroom door. that’s the next part, remember?**

They open the door.

And inch by inch, they move inside. Socked feet scuffing against the carpet, breathing shallow, as quiet as they dare it to be. Fingers grasping at the door, Frisk hangs off it for as long as they dare, before letting it close. The latch clicks, and everything is as it should be. Bed made as carefully as an eight year old could manage to make it, lamp on the bedside table casting a soft glow about the room. The few toys they own are put away, dirty clothes in their hamper. There’s a book on the bedside table- The Secret Garden. Mom’s reading it to them.

They take Frisk’s breath away in a moment. They always do.

**of course, there must be lots of magic in the world, he said wisely one day**

Hands that once clutched tightly now scratch, barely enough to catch onto before Frisk topples straight to the floor. They choke on the air- they choke, and Chara laughs. Laughs as they always do, with that soft, almost tenderness that doesn’t match the way the whole world dims, the way all the lights go out.

In their bedroom, in their Secret Garden. The one they’ve composed in their mind.

**but people don't know what it is like or how to make it.** The voice continues; soft and slow and pondering. Frisk’s vision goes cloudy, then clears. **perhaps the beginning is just to say nice things are going to happen... until you make them happen.**

 

**i am going to try and experiment.**

 

The first step is to pick themselves up. The first step is to always pick themselves up, wriggling their toes. They can still feel carpet under their feet, and that’s a good thing. They can still feel their pajamas on their skin, and that’s a good thing too. Frisk takes a step away from the door, which is another step, and waits for the next one to come.

The one where they can inhale again.

**you’re a lousy Protagonist sometimes, did you know that?**

There it is. Frisk tries not to sound too greedy about it, blinking away the spots from their eyes as they begin to take in their room. Bed. Dress. Closet. Bookshelf.

Still there. All still there.

**precipitation is a funny word for rain.** Chara mocks, and Frisk twitches, taking another step forward. Same argument, always the same. Wants to Reset. Doesn’t want to. It’s all just A Game but it’s really not, it’s not. This is their life now, it’s Frisk’s… **school is doing you wonders, frisk. one day, you might even know how to count to five.**

“I already know that…”

**only because you have me. should we count together? one...two…**

Not again. They’re not ready yet. Taking another stumbling little step, Frisk sucks in the air, tensing their whole body-

**five.**

 

Can’t breathe. Try to move their body. They can’t. Sink to the floor. Have to go to bed. Have school tomorrow. Mom wants to come up and give them a kiss goodnight.

Chara’s playing Games again. Chara’s always playing Games. Always fighting with them about something. They can feel the other’s Determination struggling with their Soul, trying to rip them back to where it all started, but they can’t. Don’t want to do it again. Won’t.

**stubborn.** Chara clicks their tongue, and Frisk inhales. Second inhale, fourth step. Almost there. **that’s a cliche, you know. a stereotype. not that it doesn’t suit you, you are the Protagonist-**

“Shut up…”

**manners, frisk. mother doesn’t like it when we swear.** Chastising. Frisk exhales, fingers touching the covers. That means they win, at least until mom comes and gives them a kiss goodnight. **if we ruin our stats with her, she’ll probably tell everyone else about it. you don’t want that, do you?**

Frisk flops down, wriggling under the covers and hiding their face in their pillow. Over their shoulder, they can almost feel them. Chara leaning over at the edge of the bed, or over the bed- something like that.

They make no mention of the idea. Last time they did, Chara just called them stupid. _There’s only one controller, stupid. And you’re using it._

**more school tomorrow. more lectures. your teacher hates you.** Chara announces cheerfully; as if Frisk doesn’t know that and Chara hasn’t told them every day for the past six months. **and next week you get to see the french ambassador; he hates you, too. probably more than his country hates onionsan; or maybe that’s an overstatement-**

“Shut up.” They mumble. Again. And Chara laughs. Again. It’s just another night, really.

**Protag. Partner. frisk. you got to see it too, didn’t you? the ending you wanted. the credits rolled. we unlocked all the yellow text. everything is perfect- so why are we still here?**

**you know why we are.**

Chara likes to talk a lot. As if Frisk couldn’t figure anything out without their inane chatter; _the sight of the ruins fills you with determination. It’s a snow poff. Alphys gives u a kiss,_

Frisk only vaguely remembers what it’s like to have a quiet mind. They can’t quite remember if they miss it or not.

**spoilers; you don’t. stop thinking so much when i’m giving you an important plot spiel.**

Frisk is a little glad Chara isn’t actually over their shoulder, though. Even if they’re older, sometimes they still think they’d pinch pretty hard. Chara tsks, and they settle. This is the part where a pat to the head would go.

**it’s time, frisk. you’re the Protagonist, so you have to play the part. time to go and see all the other endings; the ones i want to see. stop hogging the Controller.**

The door opens. Frisk lifts their head up, and there she is, framed in the light from the hallway. Toriel smiles at them, and as always, they reach over for a hug; one that she’s quick to close the gap between them to give.

“...Always so clammy, my child.” It’s a concern, they know. But they know why, and she doesn’t, and that’s the way it has to stay. She only knows because her fur sticks to their skin, and the usual check of a thermometer beneath Frisk’s tongue reveals nothing, either.

It’s not that kind of illness.

 

**...and her mother had been a great beauty who cared only to go to parties and amuse herself with gay parties.** Chara mused to themselves. Frisk sniffs, and Toriel sighs, leaning back to give them a gentle smile.

“It is alright. Lay down, now.” They do as they’re told, blankets tucked under their chin and a kiss pressed to their forehead. It’s a school night, and it’s also after eight o’clock. No more stories tonight.

**pity.**

She chuckles at the face Frisk makes, mistaking the action as being a result of her own. “Alright, I will leave you to rest. Sleep well, my child.”

She gets up to go, and the same as every night, Frisk feels a thrill go down their spine. It’s not a happy thrill. It’s a thrill of foreboding, a thrill of waking up and never quite seeing her the exact same again. An unrealistic fear made all too real.

“I love you.” They call after her; just as she reaches the door again. And just like last night, and the night before, she pauses, casting a glowing smile over her shoulder.

They force themselves to remember it, just like all the other ones.

“I love you too.”

**there’s no point being so nice to her, frisk. your s.link maxed out ages ago.** Chara informs; Frisk doesn’t ask. They don’t want to know anymore. Plus, they’re already trying to hold in their air, bracing for the next attempt. At least Chara’s not a cheater; they just need to get sleepy, first. Chara’s not a cheater; they never try to do this when Frisk isn’t looking.

That’s part of the Game too. Wrestling back and forth with the Controller.

**keyboard, probably. bullet hell works better with keyboards.**

And there it is again. No breath, no sight. No sound. Just a feeling like nails scratching down a blackboard, except the nails are Chara and the board is their Soul. What gives way first? The scratching, or the board?

**it won’t be so bad, frisk.** Chara tells them quietly, and they listen, because there’s nothing else to do. **we’ll find the duck again. you liked that part. it can fly us back and forth across the river; i’ll let you hold the Controller. but you have to stop hogging it now. it’s my turn.**

They don’t want to.

They don’t want to. They don’t want to. They don’t want to.

**stop it. you’re a Protagonist, not an NPC.** Chara tugs hard. So hard, and Frisk feels the bed beneath them slip. It’s dark. They can’t breathe. And they can feel, in the oddest, most disconnected manner, the excitement that comes with that; a little slip up. Fingernails catching in the board.

**it’ll be fun. you like fun. think of all the side quests we missed out on.**

No no, it’s not fun. It’s the least fun of all, and Chara wins way too often. If Frisk’s lip could quiver, it would; maybe it does. Hard to tell in the impossible blackness. Chara digs, and Frisk’s Soul is too tired for all this fighting all the time. It’s hard to keep winning when it’s never winning the war.

But that thought's weird, and it feels wrong. They can’t do anything about the darkness, but Frisk does- something. A thing. Anything.

They don’t want to wake up on the flowers again. That’s the most important part.

….ra?

They don't want to wake up on the flowers again. That's the most important part.

 

So they don't.

“Chara?”

They open their eyes, red eyes, red Soul, and blink at the child kneeling over them. Asriel frowns, still rubbing sleep from his eyes.

“Are you okay?”

 

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, it had to start eventually.
> 
> There's a lot of things making me nervous about this story. Shoving so many interpretations of Chara into one and then absolutely mutilating every aspect of the characterisation they bring about; that one. That one's a bit nerve wracking.
> 
> Time travel is also nerve wracking. But it's a thing whatever here we go anyway.


End file.
